"High noon" still has a resonating historical significance not lost on the people of New Amsterdam. Old cowboy movies, complete with John Wayne standing in a dusty, old street are imprinted upon people's memories, helping them recall a simpler past where grudges could be settled with guns. By 2511, these movies have been remade countless times over with different set pieces, but nostalgia continues to be an ever-present factor. It's not nostalgia that drives the UNA soldiers and Morningstar agents into position during this hour, but the time itself serves as a reminder. A call to a different time and a different past.
Outside, the sun burns bright, but people sleep soundly, shades drawn securely over their windows to create a false darkness. This is why the UNA strikes at noon: their targets will be vulnerable, comforted by the presence of daylight only a drawn shade away,
Across town, Morningstar's agents are preparing for their own strike. One of them makes a joke about the non hour. He's told to shut it. They have fifteen minutes. Is everyone ready? Their uniforms are black, tightly fitting. Each of them pulls their mask over their faces. Up ahead, there's a wall to scale.
Fifteen minutes and the plan goes into motion. Each agent knows the costs of this mission. Their last one ended up with numerous dead – lost – with no reward. UNA soldiers are far more threatening than the armed guards Morningstar faced on that day, but the reward is more sure. Worth the risk. They're secure in what they need to do.
Then it's time. Across the city, the UNA soldiers descend in perfect unison. Separate but thinking with one mind, one goal. Eliminate a festering problem, one that only stands to grow in a world haunted by chaos and trauma. It's their job to set things right. To restore order to a world that is currently without.
About forty five minutes in to the widespread assault, El sends out a message to everyone in the safehouse. This time, zeir communication is immediate, without the steady scrolling of text. Prepared in advance:
Hey, so. Emergency everyone. Come to the safehouse ASAP. Morningstar agents are in trouble, including a number who have helped you behind the scenes. Gaby will tell you more once you get there.
Once everyone shows up, crowded inside the part of the safehouse with the cots, Gaby gives everyone the rundown. The risk. The place where the rest of the agents are – this last bit of information being shared with an uneasy edge, arms crossed and body language giving off her discomfort. There are other people at risk, people who can't fight, who try to undermine the corporations with their regular lives, doing their best to keep the people they care about safe from their rebellious activity.
After she hands out the gear, she insists that it must be returned. But Gaby isn't stupid. Her desperation is inherent in her decisions, in the information that follows: exposing most of the inactive safehouses, giving away the addresses of the people likely in danger. Every Morningstar contact in New Amsterdam is likely at risk. So far, agents in other megacities aren't being targeted – yet. But this operation could be a model for future UNA efforts to eliminate the Morningstar threat.
The safehouses are spread across the city. Typically present in disheveled and forgotten pieces of real estate, there will be squatters and homeless alike taking up space as they move inside with the agents. This may prove a risk, and they may need to be bribed to go elsewhere, offered food and supplies. Other safehouses will be beneath bars, convenience stores, and through the storage room in less expensive apartment buildings – businesses and buildings owned by long-time Morningstar agents, kept ready in the case of an emergency like this one.
None of the safehouses will be prepared for living with the exception of cots and communal restrooms ready for use. This is a problem, but not a priority. She'll ask that everyone get out there and save the lives of the agents. Bring them and their families in safely – the rest can be figured out after that.
> RESTORING ORDER
Given the limitations over real estate and space even in a city as large as New Amsterdam, every citizen lives in an apartment building. The great majority of them were meant to be built quickly, similar layouts and designs behind them. A quick bit of research will get anyone the floor plans for these places – they're publicly available, ready for potential tenants. Most of these places are no dreamhouse, however: small and contained, they show the lifestyle of the typical Morningstar agent.
Any of the agents with a child – and there will only ever be one per agent, with the restrictions on childbirth – will have a roomier place, with better furnishing and more space for a child to run and grow up. These places will afford the family within better privacy, and many of them have drones and advanced robotics to help maintain the household, even caring for their child and keeping the door locked as the UNA soldiers move inside.
Where it's viable, the majority of UNA soldiers will move through the front door of these buildings. Never numbered over five, these soldiers will take the endless staircase up, erasing what little chances there are to run into anyone along the way. The knocks are just a cover to soothe the close-packed neighbors. Not all are fooled, and that's where the calls to the NAPD come in – though the UNA is prepared for this, too. Ready to assert their jurisdiction. Rather: their bosses are prepared. These soldiers have their orders and beyond that, only follow their orders with their formidable physicality and swift training.
But they are physically assertive: most of them are tall, seemingly without gender within thick black, metal armor. Despite their size and their robotic carapace, they are human underneath. Their extensive armor doesn't slow them down, instead seeming to propel them forward in a fight, letting them predict their enemies' moves as the mask they wear provides diagnostics and likely attacks on the fly. They carry extensive weapons and supplies, all to wear down any opponents. When they fight together, their actions are perfectly complementary.
They won't start a fight, but as soldiers, they are prepared. Though they enter through the front door, they intend to leave through a window, into a large flying vehicle outside, ready to hold the targets and bring them to a temporary dropsite. They don't expect any assailants, anyone to provide trouble – but they wouldn't be very well-trained, well designed if they couldn't expect or deal with the unexpected. They won't shoot unless someone forces the matter. Their training means their stature should be enough to put down most threats.
> A WELL-LAID TRAP
Confident and well-trained, the Morningstar agents have the plan ahead of them all mapped out. They know the shifts, the patrol patterns, especially at hours like this one. Fewer, right now, but they aren't nonexistent. Several strike teams spread out, ready to move to dismantle the UNA soldiers on site as needed. These are combat-trained agents, but five versus three UNA soldiers, or two, or even one still leads to odds where they don't win. Morningstar knows these soldiers intimately, has studied and discerned their few weaknesses. But these UNA soldiers are formidable opponents.
UNA Soldiers en route to Morningstar's goal will be handled with an eerie lack of follow-up. No reports of reinforcements incoming. The swift-moving Morningstar agents are too focused on their goal, which is close now, to worry about the implications. Besides, their information told them most agents would be away on training exercises. Reinforcements being delayed is no surprise.
Each agent has their own reason for being here, for believing that Morningstar needs to be more proactive, more forceful in fighting back. They aren't career soldiers, but people who thought that they could wield a gun and change a world that hides its problems under false promises and shimmering gloss. Many are impatient, frustrated: they were given a lead on weapons in June. They weren't mislead then, at least not intentionally, but what they got instead was a bus full of disoriented people. This cache is real, verified, and vulnerable, housed here temporarily before being moved for some unknown operation.
Once the Morningstar agents are all inside, the concealed UNA soldiers left at the base line up in formation. Perfectly tailored for the fight ahead, they move onto the site. Any agents on lookout duty will see the UNA moving in, ready to lay waste to anyone in there. This is a trap, they message frantically. The very real weapons inside are meant to mock with false hope.
The UNA aren't worried about Morningstar making off with their toys. After all, this is just as planned.
> INTERLUDE
Numerous officers pass by the holding cells in the NAPD's twelfth precinct, talking softly about what can they even do, muttering to themselves. Others pop a squat nearby and call it a well-earned day off. Let those soldiers take care of whatever mess they're cleaning up. That's not their job.
It's around this time that a third, unidentified group, takes advantage of the chaos. Well-dressed despite what is a late hours right now, they head into the precinct to take care of a dangling loose end. They show credentials that link them to New Beijing's governing body and personal security, they claim the men temporarily known as Tak and Alexei. As they're brought out of their cells, they're injected with the same compulsory drug as always, leaving them veritable walking zombies at first, leaving them unable to speak or act as they're given orders that tell them to do otherwise.
The records of these men will disappear with this action, the two of them swept away into the back of an expensive four-door sedan. The whole incident erased. Two somehow anonymous men didn't kill semi-innocent bystanders during the festival. As long as the records can be trusted, that was a fantasy. A whimsy.
Morningstar cameras will see this sedan stop near the current safehouse, near the typical entrance, and order Hei and Jake out. "Stay here. Sit down. Don't do or say anything until someone comes to retrieve you. It'll be a bit – they're tied up right now."
The man in the passenger seat in the front rolls down his window, leaning forward on his arm. His face is concealed, utilizing technology that's not the same but not dissimilar to what Morningstar has at their disposal. "Try not to do anything else too stupid, will you? The cops are gonna have a bug up their asses about you idiots."
And then the sedan rolls away, lifting up and passing through the city. Morningstar cameras will spot a specific – or perhaps the more apt word is "suspicious" – lack of license plate.
> MEDI-UNITS
Each of the safehouses were designed for the worst case scenario. There is a medi-unit in all of the safehouses, a large and complex machine that can heal most ills, but given the expensive nature of their design and the risk of using them, they're not used lightly.
The medi-units are reserved for the direst of needs. come into play. Dependent on a person's time of death to bring them back to the living, they need the exact time so that someone can clock it in and prepare the restoration process correctly. There are many risks in lacking that information – someone may come back damaged, unhealed, hurt in some way. They may not live for long. Assuming that a body is brought in with a time of death, they'll be directed to a safehouse with a free unit.
The person is kept in a medically induced coma while the machine repairs their body. What dreams someone experiences will be at the end point – which can be between 48 and 60 hours – as they slowly surface, starting to return to the world of the living. As they surface, their mind will be encumbered by images of bright blue lights glowing, swirling, communicating – but language seems thoroughly out of reach.
Once the medi-unit opens, the person inside will be thirsty. Desperate for water. But there will be no other signs of the wear and tear on their bodies.
> FINAL OOC NOTES
Please refer to the OOC EVENT POST for this event for all OOC info, including suggestions for directions on how to engage with the event and the questions thread for any questions regarding this event. The outcome for this event will depend upon character plans and actions developed in both this OOC post, and any additional plots brought to the moderators. Please feel free to submit any game-changing plans to us under the questions thread – but we will be reading all comments on the post!
The Operation will continue until September 11, IC time. An aftermath wrap up post will be made on January 26 which will detail the resolution and fallout of the event.
As a reminder, there is one power level up available for this event. This will be granted for a thread of at least 5 action/log comments containing your character utilizing their power in some way. They will need to reach the 5 comments required by FEBRUARY 23 to be eligible. Submission will be handled on the wrap up post.
Our Activity Check will be posted tomorrow, January 20, at 9 PM UTC. It will run for seven days and close on January 27. We will not post a warning list.
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meadowlarklogs2019-01-19 09:58 pm
clarke griffin | the 100
[To some degree, this almost feels like a battle. She's been to war with her people. Before Clarke had hit the ground, she never thought she'd be in that position, but less than a year later, and it's what she knows best. Even her time wandering the sand hadn't helped her shake that. War had turned her into Wanheda, and that's who she is now. There is no changing that.
It means that she can keep a cool head. Getting things together is important—whether it's to get supplies to people, setting up the safehouses, or putting together field medic kits. Each of these are well-supplied, but not so much that she expects anyone to do her job. Most of what's there involves antiseptics, bandages, pain relief, and—yes, Jason—medical glue. But it's medical glue.]
Stephen and I will be on call if you need us for anything. I can't speak for him, but I'm ready to go on location if needed.
ii. on location
[Clarke likes to get herself in trouble. If someone asked her to get herself in trouble, she'd be there. But that's the thing—she doesn't need to be asked. The fact that she's on site, trying to help give directions to a mother and her scared child? That's not surprising. She's in a hallway, trying to do her best to stay on alert.
The next bit that passes is quick. A soldier comes out, slamming her hard into the wall. The action is purposeful, breaking her arm in the process. It's her right arm, and while she's in a great deal of pain? She's been in pain before. She nearly died from radiation poisoning. That's not just pain, but miserable in every damn way. As she presses up against the wall, panting in agony, she takes the gun out of her holster—left-handed—and shoots the retreating soldier in the back of his head. The bullet pierces, bringing him down.
If anyone's concerned about a gun going off, Clarke won't be moving anytime soon.]
Yes. I could use a hand up. Please.
iii. medical care (with an odd touch)
[Eventually, Clarke will be that person. Yes, the person who makes a makeshift splint for herself, and goes around trying to help. She does have some pain relievers in her system. A broken arm will heal. Quickly? Maybe not. Not unless someone around has a lot of healing powers, and she's open to it, for the record, because that means she can heal other people.
Most of her care will be diligent regardless, and helped along by her power. It's a difficult balance, but some of the more panicked individuals will tire after a touch of Clarke's hand. While that won't heal her, it'll help, giving her the endurance to manage her pain, her broken arm, and everything else. But it will ... look suspect.
Once the person she's caring for is resting, she'll pull away, a look of guilt on her face.]
I wish we had a way to really reassure them that everything will be fine. [Not really the words someone might expect out of her mouth, but it's not like she's going to open up a line of conversation on her obvious power usage.]
iv. wildcard
[Otherwise, Clarke won't be jumping into most line of fire after her bit with the UNA soldiers. It would be dumb. But she's down for weighty discussions and anything else that comes up.]
ii
it moves an inch, then two, then two feet when he backs up to slam his shoulder into the body of it... and that's exactly what it is, dead, already beginning to stiffen, a soldier shot in the back of the head by—) Clarke! (he's panting when he reaches her, dropping to a knee to look her over with a pair of wide eyes and a cursory check over his shoulder. no reinforcements yet, no one to collect the fallen trooper.)
Are you alright? Can you grab onto me? We need to get out of here before they come to collect their guy.
no subject
Her arm hurts a lot. It's not just a fracture, but a broken bone that's going to have to be numbed and forgotten until the crisis is over.
She leans into Connor, understanding the necessity of it. If there's any touch of skin, or flicker of emotion, she'll feel drained, yet frustrated. Determined above all else. This doesn't stop here.
(She doesn't feel guilt. That's notable either way.)]
Let's get moving. I don't think I'll get another lucky shot. [Assuming she was handled. Weak. Done. Her size is slight, but as she'll tell someone that day, she's a damn good shot.]
no subject
it's harder than he thought. connor's in no way weak in the arms, having lifted his own body weight up ladders, grappling onto the roof of a moving bullet train, throwing himself through windows and engaging in hand to hand combat with soldiers twice his size but god damn it—
he's getting tired and there's no room to store that with the amount of pain he's been compartmentalizing with his power.)
I can alleviate the worst of it if it's going to impede your ability to walk. I know it's your arm, but the pain... (connor trails off, having to make a choice: elevator or stairwell?) Our best bet is taking the stairs, because if these stop then we'll be trapped for the foreseeable future. Do you think you can manage that many flights?
no subject
Comparing that to a broken arm and a few flights of stairs ...
It could be worse. But she knows that her body isn't as tattered or resilient, driven by the need to go on. New Amsterdam hasn't made her soft, not exactly. But it has made her lax.]
I can manage it with help. If you can alleviate some of the pain ... the sharpness of it? [Help her think clearly. Help her find the steps.] I can make it with your help.
[A beat, though they haven't even started:] Thank you, Connor.
[It's been a long time since she's been in trouble and had some help. That's a constant good thing about being here. The help. The friends. The alliances.]
no subject
it'll be fine, he's stronger than this, you can rest later.)
Of course, I'll always be here when you need me. (connor can say this with confidence because he knows he will be, whether they have small arguments, large arguments, or run off in separate directions on their own. he'll find her, he'll help her, and they'll get back to doing what they're meant to.) How does that feel? —here, I'll still walk you down.
(still wedged tightly against her, connor's maneuvering them to the stairwell and struggling with the door push it open on its hinges and keep it wide with his elbow. the first step is the hardest, getting the momentum they need to escape quickly but as steady as they can so as to not jar clarke's injuries.
it's tough, but they can make it.)
Where are the others? Were you with anyone?
no subject
When someone knows Clarke, they're bound to happen. She butts heads with people. She's always in trouble.
Like here. Like now. Guilt hits her.]
This was close to the safehouse I'm monitoring at the moment. I thought I could be in and out. There wasn't anyone here when I first got here. [Clarke doesn't clarify the "anyone." It isn't hard for her to respond to a call for help with offering it, so long as she thinks she can manage it.
And then she adds, tone a bit flat and unhappy.] I don't even know if she got away. [The woman who had run on ahead, leaving behind her life in the process.]
iii!! finally
[ If she won't bring it up, he will. Johnny's already made the rounds, doing what he can. It isn't much. Running errands for the people who know what they're doing, mostly; trying to talk down people who've had a really, really shitty day. There's some reassurance in knowing Morningstar's got half decent medical tech, and that's enough of a safety net for him to keep a lid on his powers, for the most part — he's a bleeding heart, but he knows better than to get to flashy with his ability in front of the locals.
Clarke isn't a local. And they're the only ones conscious in this corner of the room, so he gives the man she'd been 'treating' a curious nod. ]
What'd you do to him?
no subject
The movement of her hand gives her enough time to pause. Clarke knows it looks like a sedative, and she can pass it off as if that's it. Would he believe her?]
They need to rest. [Evasive. And yet—not quite true to form. Her form. Clarke can be straightforward when the time calls for it. She'll just say when she's not being blunt.
Actually, this is a time for that.]
He'll be fine. Did you think I'd answer you?
no subject
[ He kind of did, though; it's just filler. Johnny shifts his gaze back to the man she'd been treating and gives him a curious once-over. There isn't much to be gleaned from a look, aside from the obvious unconsciousness. He could keep pestering her about her ability, and he fully intends to, but it's obvious the direct approach isn't the best one. ]
You're a doctor, right? [ A beat, and he gives her a small, humoring smile. ] Non-magical.
no subject
But not everyone here is interested in the same kind of care. You have to improvise. [It's almost like a game, though Clarke isn't the type to play games.]
no subject
[ Well. A belated clarification, ] Glowing.
[ He has the self-awareness to scoot forward a bit on his seat, voice half lowering to a whisper. ] Is it a transfer?
[ Is that super vague? Yes. Working with what he knows, though, which is 100% about him. ]
no subject
No, I wasn't done. It needs to be measured. [That's more speaking to Clarke's inability to be certain if she's doing it right, and her fear of what might happen if she doesn't do it right.]
And ... I'm not sure it's a transfer in the way that you think.
no subject
How's your arm?
[ It doesn't sound like he's changing the subject. His expression remains curious and focused, tone matching. ]
no subject
I could use something magical to make myself better. [Her arm shifts, and she winces—though the stolen energy at least handles the pain, if not the healing itself. Clarke wonders if there's some disconnect there, but that's where "transfer" may be a good word, after all.]
It's inconvenient. To say the least.
no subject
I don't know if I'd call myself magical, but—
[ He would. Also, please trust him with your injury based on vague implications. Dramatic affect is one thing, though; nasty surprises are another, and he's quick to provide some context. ]
I can help. [ A pause, and a look that's one part hamming it up and one part genuinely apologetic. ] Fair warning, it might sting a little.
no subject
How does it work exactly? [A brief pause.] I can handle stinging. I've handled worse.
[Will his power get inside of her head? That's what makes her wary.]
no subject
[ He knows what happens. He doesn't know how it works or what it really does, beyond the obvious. But that isn't what she's asking; she just wants to know what she's getting into. It's odd to describe out loud, and it takes him a moment to settle on phrasing. ]
I can take injuries. Transfer, maybe.
[ Hence the earlier assumption. ]
no subject
[Shedding light. It means looking anywhere other than herself. Clarke is open to it.]
no subject
[ You know, like a wound. He isn't going to lie and act like it isn't painful, but he doesn't sound overly worried about it. ] And full disclosure, I don't think it's all puppies and sunshine to be on the receiving end, either.
no subject
Though I guess I'm better to treat you than vice versa. Are you certain you want to do this?
no subject
Right back at you, though. You don't have to do this if you don't want to.
no subject
And what can she offer in return? The exact opposite.
Some guilt stirs up in her over the recognition of this fact. When it comes down to it, she'll always be Wanheda at heart, won't she?
Her hand slips into Johnny's, and her chest glows, feelings kicking up inside of her. Feeling Clarke's emotional state is never ... pleasant, not unless she's subdued some of the worst of it. Or she's managed to be thoroughly distracted. Even when, the foundation of the bad experiences that make her who she is still can drown out the rest. Right now, it mingles with it. Guilt. Sadness. Loneliness. But also curiosity, interest. What kind of person is Johnny? And what will she learn from this?]